It's Not Chance, It's Chess
by starkidholmes
Summary: Moriarty captures Sherlock's son Hamish without warning. There seems to be no reason to the consulting criminals latest plight, but could it be part of a much larger scheme?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My first Sherlock fanfic, enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything associated with it. I just use the ideas to relieve me from my boredom!_

**Text from Hamish Holmes (6:47 PM): Dad, Moriarty's got me. Help. -HH**

Text to Hamish Holmes (6:47 PM): Where are you? -SH

**Text from Hamish Holmes (6:49 PM): Warehouse, lots of antique furniture, judging by its condition it's been about five years since it was abandoned. -HH**

Text to Hamish Holmes (6:50 PM): Found it. Hold on. -SH

**Text from Hamish Holmes (6:53 PM): Hurry. I'm afraid. -HH**

Text to Hamish Holmes (6:53 PM): Don't let him hurt you. -SH

**Text from Hamish Holmes (6:55 PM): He's got me tied up. -HH**

Text to Hamish Holmes (6:56 PM): Bite him if you have to. -SH

**Text from Hamish Holmes (6:59 PM): He's coming back. I'm scared. -HH**

Text to Hamish Holmes (6:59 PM): I'm on my way. Hold on, I'm doing all that I can to get there. -SH

Text to Hamish Holmes (7:02 PM): Hamish? -SH

Text to Hamish Holmes (7:05 PM): Answer me. Please. -SH

**Text from Hamish Holmes (7:10 PM): Help! -HH**

Sherlock sprinted out of the police car despite Lestrade's desperate attempts to keep him calm. He drew his gun and entered the warehouse. Hamish sat on a chair in the very center, tied to it with thick rope, looking quite terrified. Moriarty stood over the boy, a hand on his shoulder.

"Get away from him." Sherlock's voice was low and steeped with anger. He glared at Moriarty with fiery eyes.

Moriarty smiled. "Sherly, you came. Glad to see you."

Sherlock practically shook with anger. "Give me back my son," he barked through gritted teeth.

Moriarty shrugged. "Okay." He began walking away, and as he did, red dots of light appeared across Sherlock's chest. Similar ones appeared on Hamish. Snipers. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty called back.

"This can't be it, Jim," Sherlock said. "It's too quick, too easy, too boring. This can't be it." Moriarty had disappeared out of sight, however. Sherlock took a step forward, testing to see if the snipers would allow him to move. When they did, he rushed to Hamish. A shot rang out, and Hamish's eyes widened as he looked to the red spot blooming on the white fabric that covered his left shoulder. Sherlock was sprinting now. His mind raced, wondering what the significance of it all was. Briefly, he thought of the wound's similarity to John's. It didn't make sense. He crouched beside Hamish, supporting the boy as he examined the wound. Not bad, he'd live. "What does it all mean," he muttered. "It's too simple, too easy. There has to be more." There was a noise on the other side of the warehouse. A figure sat in a chair, obscured by shadow. Then a light flickered on.

John sat tied to one of the antique chairs. A single red light was pointed at his chest, just above his heart. Sherlock called out, "What does it mean, Moriarty?"

Moriarty appeared next to John. "Remember what I said that first night at the pool, Sherlock? I'll burn the heart out of you. Well, it's time. You must choose one of them." He nodded at John, then at Hamish. "One must live, one must die. Who will it be , Sherly dear? Your only son, or your blogger,and if I'm correct, object of long-harbored affection?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. His mind searched for an option. He couldn't let either of them die. Then, it dawned on him. He stood slowly, clutching his gun, and slowly raised it to his temple.

"I choose myself," he said calmly.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Valiant. Playing hero, are we?" Sherlock stared back, unblinking. He clicked the safety off. His finger tightened on the trigger. Moriarty looked back, the same smirk on his faced. They stayed that way for several minutes, then Moriarty spoke.

"Well, this has been fun, but stalemates can be so tedious. Ta!" With that, he shot Sherlock in the side and left without another word. The red lights disappeared.

Sherlock fell to the ground, clutching his side. His vision swam. He was vaguely aware of John's voice, far off, Lestrade's face, blurry, and lastly a screeching siren as all fell to black.

_I know it makes no sense, but it isn't supposed to, you'll see, it fits in! Until next time!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Finally! Sorry about putting this off so long, I got really nitpicky. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!_

Sherlock awoke in what he could only guess was a hospital. He did not stir, he gave no sign of consciousness. Instead, he listened.

A woman (middle aged with a smoking habit, judging by her voice) was taking his vitals and talking to someone across the room.

"So brave, taking a bullet for you in a drive-by, was it? How noble." The woman stroked his hair lightly and Sherlock fought back the urge to slap her hand away.

"Er—yes, that was it." John's voice came from across the room. He sounded uncomfortable, as well as quite tired.

"He's handsome, too. Hasn't he got a wife?"

John cleared his throat. "No, no wife."

"Who's the mother of his son, then? Can't be adopted, they look just alike," the nurse's false nails grazed across Sherlock's forehead, and he inwardly cringed.

"Surrogate mother," John explained. "He won't tell anyone who she is, only that no one who's asked would know her."

"I see." The nurse's fingers paused on Sherlock's forehead for a moment. He really wished she'd take her hand off his head. "So he hasn't got a girlfriend either? I mean, he hasn't had a woman visit him…"

"No, you see, women aren't his particular area of interest." John sounded exasperated. Why?

The nurse's tone of voice changed. "Oh, then, well, are you two—"

"No." John's voice, slightly louder than usual, cut the nurse off. "We're not. I'm not. He just isn't particularly interested in romance. "

The nurse was silent a moment, then spoke, "Well, I should go check on another patient. Watch the clock, visiting hours end soon." Sherlock heard her footsteps leading away, then the sound of the door closing.

"I know you're awake," John said as soon as the nurse had left.

Sherlock didn't move, only asked, "How?"

"Your heart rate picked up. The nurse was too… distracted to notice."

Sherlock gave a minute nod. "Good observation, John. How long have I been unconscious, exactly?"

"Four days."

"How is Hamish?" Sherlock opened his eyes, squinting at the fluorescent lights above him.

"Good. He finds the hospital to be a great adventure. He can't stand bed rest, though. Finds it far too dull. He's made a habit of escaping from his room in the middle of the night and exploring the building." John chuckled.

Sherlock smirked. He'd expected nothing less from Hamish. Even a bullet couldn't slow the boy down. John shifted awkwardly in his seat, fingers drumming against his thigh. He looked anxious.

"You're nervous about something." Sherlock eyed John coolly. "What is it?"

"N-nothing. It's nothing." John studied the linoleum floor with more focus than it deserved, hoping to avoid the answer to Sherlock's question.

"You're lying."

John sighed and frowned, trying to gather his words. "I was just thinking… about what Moriarty said… about me, that is… and I was wondering if tha—" John's sentence was cut short as Hamish burst through the door.

"John, they realized I'd gotten out and they want to put me back to bed! Don't make me go, please." Hamish's left arm was in a sling, his shoulder heavily bandaged. A red mark on his arm showed where he'd ripped an IV from it, most likely in order to improve his mobility. He looked over and saw Sherlock sitting in bed and grinned. "You're awake." He ran to his father's bedside.

"You should be resting." Sherlock's voice took on a slightly different tone, almost fatherly. Almost.

"Resting's dull." Hamish frowned. "Wait, I wanted to show you something!" He reached into his pocket and handed Sherlock a folded piece of computer paper. Sherlock unfolded it to find a detailed diagram of a human heart, accurately labeled and surrounded by scribbled notes.

"You made this?" Hamish nodded enthusiastically. "Very good. Is it from memory?"

"No, yesterday I was bored and John took me down to the mortuary and a nice lady named Molly let me look at a real heart, I got to dissect it and everything! John helped, of course." He beamed back in John's direction. John smiled back tiredly. Sherlock was sure running about after Hamish for four days had taken its toll on him.

There was a knock at the door, and before John could answer it, the same nurse from before walked in. "I'm sorry, but visiting hours just ended." She glanced toward Sherlock's bed. "Mr. Holmes, how long have you been awake? I'll fetch Dr. Brenner in a moment. And Hamish, you should be resting in bed, don't want to open up those stitches."

John stood and put on his coat. "Well, suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said to Sherlock.

"We didn't finish talking. Perhaps you could call later?"

John sighed. "No, I think it'd be best to discuss the matter in person. Goodbye, Sherlock." He walked over to retrieve Hamish, and left. The nurse followed. A few minutes later, a man knocked on the door, then let himself in. He introduced himself as Dr. Brenner (mid-forties, married, two children, large dog, golden retriever, no, retriever-labrador mix). He checked Sherlock's wound, then his vitals, asking dull, routine questions the entire time. Sherlock answered with bored monotony. The entire ordeal took about fifteen minutes, and Sherlock was glad when it ended.

"I'm sure you're hungry, I'll have some food sent up for you." Dr. Brenner adjusted his glasses and wrote something on his clipboard. Sherlock didn't particularly wish to eat, but he said nothing. The doctor stood, capped his pen, and said to Sherlock, "Well, it looks like you're on your way to a quick recovery. Do you have any questions?"

"No, but could you hand me that?" He nodded to John's laptop, which John had left under his chair. Dr. Brenner nodded and retrieved the computer. "Alright. Get some rest." He left quickly. Sherlock opened the laptop and pulled up the police reports. A convenience store had been robbed, a teenage girl had gone missing, there was one murder (obviously domestic violence, husband with a drinking habit, typical 'had a few beers and got angry' story, dull), all in all, nothing particularly interesting. He frowned. Why hadn't Moriarty done anything? A spontaneous act like that ensured a follow-up. There was a knock at the door, and a young nurse walked in carrying a tray of what vaguely resembled food. She set it beside Sherlock and hurried out. He glanced at the tray disgustedly and deemed it inedible. Sighing, he pushed the tray aside and picked up his phone to send a text.

**Text to John Watson (8:50 PM): Bring food tomorrow. Wouldn't dare eat the slop they serve here. –SH**

Text from John Watson (8:53 PM): How does Chinese sound? –JW

**Text to John Watson (8:53 PM): Decent enough. –SH**

Text from John Watson (8:55 PM): Good. See you at noon, then. –JW

Sherlock set his phone down and logged into his email. Like the police reports, there was nothing interesting. Mycroft had sent a link to a news story, titled 'Amateur Detective Sherlock Holmes Shot in Drive-By'. As well, there was a message from one of Hamish's teachers, similar to the other ones he'd been receiving "Hamish is incredibly intelligent, far more so than his peers, but he doesn't seem to want to put in the effort to do his work since he already knows the material. Have you considered moving him up a grade next year?" Sherlock scanned the email with disinterest. Hamish was already ahead by one grade, another shouldn't be too hard. He closed the laptop and laid back turning his thoughts to Moriarty. Why hadn't he made another move? Surely he'd gotten bored by now, and his previous act deserved some sort of justification. After a while, Sherlock began feeling drowsy. _Damned painkillers_, he thought. _Sleep is dull, and there are far more pressing matters at the moment._

Several hours later, Sherlock awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. Even though he was groggy from the drugs, he knew exactly who would be calling at this hour.

A familiar voice drawled,"Sherly dear, sorry to wake you, but I just couldn't wait to talk to you after hearing you'd woken up!"

Sherlock sighed. "Was it the nurse?"

Moriarty sounded surprised. "How'd you know?"

"Her acting was horrendous. No one strokes an unconscious man's hair for four minutes straight."

"I see," Moriarty huffed. "I'll have to make sure she's punished for that."

"What's going on, Jim?" Sherlock asked suddenly. ""Why did you do this?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Moriarty's voice dripped with sarcastic questioning.

"You captured Hamish for no particular reason, allowed him to contact me, lured me there so that I could watch my son get shot, all so that you end up shooting me and walking out without a word?"

Moriarty chuckled darkly. "Funny, wasn't it? Nothing made sense, and that's exactly how I wanted it to go."

"Why?"

"To get your attention. That wasn't all, oh no. What I've got planned is much bigger, much better."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, you'll see. I should go, you need your rest, can't play this game without sleep. Ta!" Moriarty hung up with a click. Sherlock laid back, wincing at the pain in his side. What did it all mean?

_Sorry if that was slow, but it'll pick up soon! Chapter three might be awhile (reverse engineering deductions isn't particularly easy, and neither is… well, if I told you, I'd give that part away!) Oh, also, reviews, suggestions, comments, fan mail, hate mail, prompts, etc. are all greatly appreciated! Contact me here or at .com!_


End file.
